Culture Shock

They told me to prepare to deal with some culture shock when I entered Africa. And naturally, the culture was rather overwhelming at first. Streets lined with hungry children and devastated mothers cried out to my heart. Unsanitary water, no plumbing, no front doors, dirt floors and tin roofs. Slaughtered goat heads scattered the street corners: "what do your dogs eat?" they continually asked us when we cringed at the sight of them. Being the only white people in a city of several hundred thousand caused quite a stir. Wanting so badly to understand what the little boy was trying to tell me, and finally accepting that I didn't recognize any of those Amharic words -- so I smile and I nod, defeated by the language barrier. Finding no salt or pepper at meal time, but only a jar of chili powder -- the Ethiopian staple. One loaf of bread costs one Ethiopian Birr. Conversion -- 5.8 cents.

It was a totally different culture. And it was, indeed, shocking.
But the thing is, I expected it.
I expected the poverty and the language barrier and the different food.
So, after a few days, I was naturally able to accept it and become quite content with my new little world in Africa.

In Ethiopia, I experienced a bit of culture shock.
But there was another country where it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Upon re-entering America on August 9th, 2011, nothing made sense to me.
Why is this airport so cold?
Where are these people in such a hurry to be?
Why are they so rude?
Why is everything so expensive?

With each new place I went, building I entered, or city I drove through, new questions, emotions, and heaviness fell upon my heart.

"Here is $200 for allowing us to park our car here in Chicago for two weeks."
Two-hundred dollars...
That's 3,400 Ethiopian Birr
That could buy someone a horse to make a living,
Pay for two year's worth of rent,
Send 17 kids to school.

"This air is so clean. So fresh. It's incredible."

Stop at rest stop. Wash hands five times. Smell them.
They smell clean.
They haven't smelled clean in two weeks.
Dry them with air that blows right out of the wall.
What kind of insane contraption is this?

"Why are these streets so bare?
Where are all the children?
Why aren't they playing soccer?"

When I actually arrived at home sweet home,
I opened our solid wood door,
entered the cool, air-conditioned space,
walked across the soft, carpeted floor,
and collapsed onto the ever-comforting sofa.

It was then that I looked up,
soaked in my surroundings,
and with tears streaming down my cheeks
uttered to my mom,

"We live in a mansion."

It took me a few days to be able to shower without crying through it.
The clean, warm water fell over me with the perfect amount of pressure to wash off the exfoliating mango body soap with moisturizing beads, and every child's face flashed through my head, as I realized that they would probably never experience what I was doing right then.

A clean shower.
A comfortable home.
Fresh air.
Soap.
Transportation.

May I never take a single thing for granted again.
May this culture shock never quite wear off.
For I -- a middle class American -- am rich.
Filthy rich.
And chances are, you are too.

"Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”  Matthew 19:24

God help us.